


Catch Fire With Me

by Avathys



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Din Djarin, Alpha!Migs Mayfeld, Alpha/Alpha Relationship, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Din is having a crisis right now, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Power Dynamics, author is a trash can not a trash cant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28180107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avathys/pseuds/Avathys
Summary: The Creed dictates that a Mandalorian cannot remove their helmet or show their face to any living being. If they are defeated or dishelmed, there is only one way back with honor. They must submit themselves to bond with whoever defeated them or saw their face.Problem is, Migs is an Alpha too....
Relationships: Din Djarin & Migs Mayfeld, Din Djarin/Migs Mayfeld
Comments: 98
Kudos: 319
Collections: Movies





	1. The Creed

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, basically just straight up porn with plot sprinkled in it. 
> 
> Mild warning for consent, given that Din is kinda in survival mode and thinks he has no other choice. 
> 
> No beta, we die like Mandalorians. All mistakes are my own.

The Slave I’s hatch closed slowly, whizzing gears narrowing the image of the refinery’s fiery destruction and the blue ring of a seismic charge behind them. Migs knew that looking at the bright flash was bad for organic eyes, but he had to watch. Every second of the Imperial war machine’s death was something he could not look away from. It felt…. Good. Good in a way he hadn’t felt in years, eliciting a primal hum from deep in his chest.

The weight of his comrades’ deaths weighed just a little less on his shoulders, which were already heavy with the guilt of being part of the very systematic oppression he had just helped destroy.

“TIE fighters destroyed,” Boba’s growling voice spoke over the ship’s intercom, “Heading back to rendezvous.”

There was movement to Migs’ right accompanied by heavy, modulated breathing, reminding the sharpshooter he was not alone. Mando was slowly slumping forward, back sliding down the side of the ship hull while still in stormtrooper armor, till he came to rest defeatedly on his haunches. He appeared tired, but it was anger, distraught, and an undercurrent of panic that emanated from him, strong pheromones gunking up the craft’s small interior. The Alpha had smelt absolutely awful since that entire debacle in the officer’s mess, his awkwardness only overshadowed by the stench of his shame. It had made Migs’ job of smooth talking them out of trouble damn near impossible. Several times, he had found himself wishing that Mandalorian creed included scent blockers at the very least. But the smell of despair was just getting worse now, despite the fact that they were safe, free and alone; Mando even had a helmet securely back on his head.

Migs shook his head in disbelief. It was just a helmet, and Migs wouldn’t say shit.

He remembered that uneasy mouth, tight jaw, and those deep brown eyes. It would be a long time before he forgot Mando’s face, but it would stay secret. Their secret and theirs alone.

“Let’s get out of these uniforms.” Migs said finally, hoping that Mando’s mood would turn for the better once he was back in his beskar and on familiar territory. Alphas were funny like that. And Mando’s stress was making Migs’ own instincts twitchy. He wanted to growl at something, and he knew Mando wouldn’t take kindly to Migs snapping at him. The other man was reserved, quiet, even polite, when he wasn't hunting or killing someone, but no alpha would tolerate such a blatant display of dominance directed towards them.

Mando nodded quietly, standing up so he could make his way towards the military bag propped up against one of the jump seats, the silver gleam of his beskar breastplate peaking over the canvas rim.

Migs and Mando redressed in silence. The ex-Imperial noticed that Mando pulled the stormtrooper helmet off easily this time, so he politely turned his back to the other man. He had made it out alive, Today was a good day; no need to ruin anything. He listened carefully for the clasp of a buckle or clang of metal, any indication Mando had finished switching out suits of armor, as he silently zipped up his own flight suit, jacket, and boots. Finally, when the hull was still, he spoke.

“Mando? You good? That pretty boy face of yours hidden?”

Silence.

Migs slowly turned, only to see deep, sad eyes. Mando was dressed in his own basic flight suit once again, but his armor was lain across the seat in a neat, careful pile. In his hands was his helmet, held in front of him as he stared blankly back into its black visor. Migs almost jerked back around, but …. Fuck, Mando’s eyes looked crushed. He looked on the verge of tears.

“Hey,” Migs said, “Mando… it’s-“

“I can’t do it.” Mando’s whisper was cracked, raw. He lowered the helmet down, resting it against his stomach, as if he felt sick and the helmet would prevent him from hurling all over the cargo deck. Boba would probably curse at him and make him clean it up, even if he was only a Beta and Mando an Alpha.

“Do what?” Migs asked, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling.

Mando’s far away gaze finally gained focus and he nervously looked at Migs. “I can’t put it back on.”

“Now I told you, Mando, I never saw your face. Put the damned helmet on and forget all about what happened.” Migs stalked forward as he spoke, or rather ordered, his nature becoming increasingly forceful. Surprisingly, Mando dropped his gaze, turning his head slightly to the side. A sign of submission. Well that was new. In Migs’ limited interactions with Mando, the warrior had rarely yielded to anyone, and never Migs.

“You-” Mando stopped, eyes pressed closed, and gave a small swallow that Migs wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t paying very close attention. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain.” Migs said. He hadn’t meant for it to sound like a command, but if Mando was going to act like this, Migs would rather know what the hell was happening inside the other man’s puzzling head.

“The creed,” Mando answered, as if that would explain everything.

Migs gave a one shoulder shrug and wild wave of his hand. Mando growled low in his throat, irritated, the anger spiking in his already potent scent. Yes, strong, invincible, Alpha Mando was back, the one Migs knew and could make sense of. That was good. Migs tamped down on his own animal desire to rise to Mando’s direct challenge.

“I am not allowed to remove my helmet, and no living being may see my face.”

“Ok, we’ve already established this. And I told you I didn’t see shit.”

Mando scoffed loudly.

“But you did, and not only that, that terminal scanned my face. It’s in the Imperial systems now.” Mando’s voice was back to raspy and desperate, emotional whiplash evident in those red rimmed eyes. Migs hated to see such a strong being reduced so low. “And I won’t live a lie. It would be a dishonor to Mandalore, all Mandalorians, and myself. I won’t do it.” 

Migs had known that Mando lived by a strict code of honor unique to Mandalorians, but he had never thought that the warrior would damn himself due to an unavoidable mistake. “So now what?”

“I can’t put it back on, ever.” Mando stated quietly, his tone final. However, the way he hunched in on himself, his eyes adverted downward in submissive avoidance, told Migs that Mando was hiding something. A lifetime behind the helmet left the Mandalorian’s face easier to read and more predictable than those trashy holonovelas Migs would trade out with the guys on long deployments. 

“Unless…” Migs prompted.

Mando swallowed again, ducking his head down further as his shoulder curled inward. For a tall alpha, broad chested and battle hardened, Mando was doing his best to disappear into the side of the hull. The Slave I was hardly a large enough place to hide though, so Mando forced himself to continue. 

“The creed does allow one to remain a Mandalorian,” He paused again, closing his eyes in desperation, before sucking in one large breath, “If they submit to bonding with the one that defeated them or saw them dishelmed.”

Wait. What?

“I’m sorry, what now?”

Mando gave him a curt look, his eyes suddenly Alpha sharp and focused, as if gearing up for a fight.

“I can honor my creed and remain a member of the covert, if I submit to bonding,” Mando ground out, his teeth bared. “With you.”

It took Migs several moments to fully work his way through Mando’s single declaration. Bonding, or irreversibly binding together the natural Force energy of two sentient beings, was never something Migs had ever had any interest in. He chalked it up to growing up in the Empire. In the Old Republic, bonding was already rapidly falling out of fashion, seen as antiquated and almost barbaric. When the Empire took over, they actively worked to discourage and disparage bonding, wanting all citizens’ first allegiance to be to the ruling Imperial party. Twenty years of anti-bonding rhetoric had left the institution rare and regarded with a critically weary eye.

Then there was the other thing. That other problem complicating their situation _in particular_.

“We’re… the same,” Migs said haltingly. He knew that Mando would understand what he meant.

While not impossible, bonding between Alphas was infamously problematic and notoriously unstable. It was just an unspoken rule of society that most never even considered trying it, especially those possessing such dominant personalities and hair trigger instincts. Alpha to Alpha bonds normally only worked if one of the bondmates was willing to….

“I said submit, Mayfield.” Mando replied dryly. His shoulders hunched down again, shielding the sides of his neck where his unmarked scent glands resided, like he was trying to protect them but couldn’t challenge Migs to leave him alone. “The creed is very clear.”

Wait. Migs’ mind blanked a little with an abrupt realization.

According to his creed, Mando couldn’t challenge him?

“And if I say no?” Migs asked finally, his pulse racing. 

Mando sucked in his breath, a sharp trembling shudder. His brown eyes were now wide, almost wild in their pleading. He looked absolutely lost. 

“I am to present you my helmet to do with as you wish. I will then be permanently exiled from the convert and no longer allowed to call myself Mandalorian.”

“Oh.” Migs could not think of anything else to say. There was a ringing in his ears and his hands had gone all twitchy. He had to admit to himself, albeit privately, that he had always found Mando's silhouette appealing, had always been drawn to the harshness and steadiness of the other man. 

“There’s… no other way?”

“This is the way.” Mando just sounded tired. The two men stood there, too caught up in their current conversation to even remember that they were coming down off a highly dangerous and demanding mission. Maybe that was why everything felt so exposed, so inexplicably draining. A shift in momentum indicated that the Slave I slowing down and rotating to land, jarring Migs till he almost became unbalanced. Mando was still rooted in his place, immovable and resolute. In only a matter of minutes, Boba would park and open the cargo hatch, allowing the sniper and rebel dropper onboard. Soon, the situation in the hold was going to complicate itself exponentially.

Migs stepped over to the hull com panel and hit a button.

“Fett,” He said into the mic, “Give us a minute once we land.”

“Complications?”

“Just-“ Migs sputtered, “Give us a minute, will ya?!”

Ripping his finger from the panel, he turned back to face the other man. Migs was still trying to rationalize that the lithe figure in front of him, no armor and face exposed, was the Mandalorian. It wasn’t a bad face, in fact it was rather lovely in a rugged and dark way. He never would have guessed a moustache, but it accented the downward turn of Mando’s mouth. And damn those eyes. They were going to get Migs in so much kriffing trouble. Migs was definitely filing every second of them away to use at a later date between himself, his dick, and his hand. He had never imagined being able to touch the Mandalorian, let alone have sex with him, especially since the man was an Alpha. An Alpha who had never shown a single interest in anyone unless they were green, bat-eared, and barely a foot tall. 

“Mando,” Migs started, “This is crazy.”

Mando huffed, looking away. He was once again not meeting Migs’ gaze, but all the sharp shooter wanted was for Mando to look at him, challenge him, connect with him. Instead Mando pointedly stared at the wall. Migs waited for Mando to reply, to tell him what he wanted to do, but nothing came. A second revelation came to Migs’ slowly, in pieces, but it clarified several unknowns quickly.

He was treating Mando like another Alpha, natural inclination and social protocol telling him to respect, to ask. If Mando were an omega, Migs would have taken charge by now. Suddenly, Mando’s refusal to challenge Migs’ aggressive interrogation earlier, instead yielding to answer every question fully and honestly, made sense.

Mando needed his permission to ask.

“Shit…” Migs said under his breath. “Mando, tell me what you want.”

“I doesn’t matter what I want anymore.” Came the small reply.

Migs cleared his throat.

“Mando, answer me.” He ordered. “What do you want? Be honest.”

Mando met his gaze for only a moment, before closing them, his expressive eyebrows scrunched together in a tight knot. He was working himself up to something, something huge. With a deep breath, the Mandalorian finally made up his mind and took several stiff steps forward. Migs tensed as Mando neared him, a stronger alpha approaching head on setting off all of Migs’ mental alarms. When Mando was barely a few feet away, he slowly sunk to his knees to kneel at Migs’ feet with his head lowered.

“I am a Mandalorian.” Mando turned his head to the side, fully exposing his neck in proposition. “Please…. Let me remain one. Please.”

Migs cursed again, quietly under his breath.

“Can I think about it?” His voice was almost a whine. He coughed, trying to regain some of his dignity.

“I think we need to figure this out now.” Mando’s brown eyes flitted up to look at his face, questioning, before he lowered himself back down, neck turned in surrender.

The pit in Migs’ stomach was beginning to churn, to settle lower and lower in his gut. Migs preferred men, and he had even once made out with another Alpha as an unruly young adult, fresh out of training and thrown into the hormonal hunting ground that was field grade, enlisted infantry. Bonding was a completely different institution. It scared the bantha crap out of him. 

However, warmth was spreading through Migs like fire, the prospect of bending the Mandalorian to his will absolutely mouth-watering. Something dark was whispering from over his shoulder, ghosting along the nape of his neck, making him shift from one foot to another. Part of him really, really wanted to yank Mando by his tufty, black hair, bend him over a nearby electronic work station, and claim what was being so beautifully offered to him. It was a natural reaction, to want to dominate, acquire power and influence. Migs was torn between falling into the delicious lull of sex, and the more rational side that told Migs that the rules were blurring. He had already found himself on the wrong side many times before, what was to say he wasn’t going to hurt Mando even worse than he already had? It had been his fault Mando was forced to remove his helmet. Mayfeld had been the one to cause Mando's ultimate demise. 

Maybe that meant he somehow owed the Mandalorian his request?

“Ok.” He breathed out, nodding his head firmly before he could take it back. “Ok, I’ll do it.”

~*~


	2. The Bite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank all of you that commented, kudo'd, bookmarked, and subscribed. <3
> 
> Warning: E rating earned in this chapter. Who am I kidding? This is why you all are here for, aren't you, ya filthy animals....
> 
> Enjoy....

The air around Migs’ ears was ringing, buzzing incessantly like the static of a live mic. It hung over the hull as he stared down at brown eyes wide with shock, before said eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. Migs swallowed loudly, drawing in a grounding breath as he waited for the cackle in his head to subside. The promise of sex was causing a delicious roll of heat to surge between his legs.

Mando looked like he wanted to reply to Migs’ final acquiescence, but had no idea how to go about it tactfully. There was a defensiveness about him, like he suspected Migs’ thought him the topic of some ill-mannered joke or a target for others’ cruel humor, to be played with and pointed at. His pouting mouth was absurdly captivating.

“Mayfeld,” He said, his voice low, “I am not- this is not a-“

He growled in frustration, stumbling attempts to even finish a sentence showing Migs’ just how out of his element he was. Mando was a man of few words, but he never hesitated or second guessed. If Migs wasn’t scared Mando would suddenly clock the bantha shit out of him, he would smile at the other Alpha’s obvious inexperience.

“I’m serious.” Migs said. Silence. Then. “Are you?”

The last thing Migs wanted to be was a sexual predator or to take advantage of the man he had come to understand and respect. Mando looked down at the metal floor grates beneath his knees. “I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t… open to the option. I could have just left the helmet and walked away.”

“Oh.”

Migs waited, tongue like dry linen in his mouth. He wasn’t really sure what he was hoping for. Maybe a sign? A signal? Any indication of heading, or even, for kriff’s sake, a command. 

_Oh…._

“Come here.” He punctuated the demand with an authoritative push. 

Mando’s shoulders jerked as if Migs’ words were a blaster bolt. He stayed put for just a moment, his entire face and body frozen as if at war with itself, before he slowly stood. The line of his jaw flexed and loosened as he ground his teeth, teeth he would combatively flash every time his darting eyes met Migs’ own pointed gaze, his canines sharp in warning, before he looked away, lips pursing closed once again. There was a tense moment of standoff before the Mandalorian obediently stepped the rest of the way forward and closed the distance between them. Migs waited, one hand twisting around his flight suit’s hip utility loop the only indication of his nervousness, as Mando came close enough to share breath. Their faces where so close, Migs’ held high and straightforward while Mando angled his gaze down at the ex-Imperial’s orange stubbled chin. Migs held his position and watched Mando slowly relax his stance, relenting to his direction.

Mando was learning to obey just as Migs learned how to lead another Alpha.

After he was sure Mando was in control of himself and wouldn’t break his arm for a wrong move, Migs reached forward with both hands. One wound around Mando’s waist, tugging him forward so the scorch of Mando body licked at him through their clothes. However, forcing their bodies to hover together was only a distraction. His other hand landed softly but firmly on the back of Mando’s neck, Migs’ long fingers tangling in sweat-slicked black hair. Mando twitched, like he wanted to twist out of Migs’ grip, but he forced himself to comply with the intimate touch.

Migs knew how it felt to be grabbed by the nape; it had been used often and cruelly as punishment in stormtrooper basic training. As an Alpha, neck holds felt wrong in every way, unnatural, but Mando tolerated it well. Well enough that Migs, boldened by the allowance, leaned forward without thinking. Their mouths came together harshly, a hot grind of chapped lips, sweat, and heated breath. Mando was unnaturally still, paralyzed by the multitude of contradicting stimuli, until he slowly tilted his head to one side and allowed Migs to slot their lips together fully. Like two puzzle pieces finally clicking into place.

Migs was so stunned by how well the two of them fit together that he pulled back the moment they had finally engaged in an actual kiss. Holy hell, they had kissed! It was shocking how much he enjoyed the strong presence pressed against him as it melted under the dominant grip of his fingers. He was becoming both overwhelmed and ridiculously turned on. Migs knew that his scent reeked of arousal and that his flight suit was tented around his groin, extremely interested cock bumping into Mando’s hip whenever they swayed too close together.

Mando’s scent flooded with frenzied lust, mirroring Migs’ own.

Their eyes met. Mando slowly, deliberately, dropped his gaze, focusing hungrily on Migs’ mouth. 

They both moved this time, surging together into an open-mouthed duel for control. Migs almost allowed Mando to swirl his tongue forward and lay claim, but his own desire to take the lead drove him to push back instead, the hand on Mando’s waist coming to unzip the front of the other man’s clothes. Migs’ vastly superior well of sexual experience worked in his favor as he nipped none too lightly at the lip caught between his teeth and tightened his hold in Mando’s hair, pulling just the right side of painful. Mando, sensitive and new to almost every sensation Migs threw at him, was completely overwhelmed in no time. Din’s chest now exposed, Migs quickly found one hardening nipple and pinched it firmly. Mando gasped loudly, forced to concede. Migs couldn’t resist the opportunity to press forward, swallowing the whine of Mando’s protest, as he his own tongue savored the moist softness of the Mandalorian’s lewdly spread mouth. Mando’s unzipped suit was pushed over each shoulder roughly, the bounty hunter even rolling his shoulders from underneath it to help Migs get the garment off and rolled downward to hang low around Mando’s hips. It wasn’t long until both men ran out of breath, their hearts racing, so they pulled apart, panting as a translucent string of spit spanned the small gap between their open mouths.

Migs clenched the hand in Mando’s hair reflexively.

“Mayfeld,” Mando was doing his best to keep the warning out of his libido-wrecked tone. His mouth was red, lips puffy and raw.

“Call me Migs.” The ex-Imperial also failed to keep himself fully under control, voice not as desperate, but still a lusty huff that was more growl than actual words.

Mando only nodded curtly, his forehead bumping into Migs’ by accident. He didn’t seem to mind it though, because he tentatively leaned to press their foreheads together. Migs privately admitted he liked it as well. The closeness, the danger, the all-encompassing fever heat. All of it. 

Mando looked up at him, his brown eyes swallowed by the black of his pupils.

“Din.”

“What?” Migs whispered, out of breath.

“My name.” Mando shivered. “My name is Din Djarin.”

The two stood wrapped completely in each other, both still grappling with the suddenness and gravity of what was happening. Only hours ago they had been enemies turned unenthusiastic allies. Now – what even where they?

“You done with your moment, little ones?” A low voice suddenly rumbled over the hull’s comm speaker.

Migs and Mando – _Din_ – both jumped, jerking away from each other like children that had been caught doing something wrong. Neither one of them immediately knew who had spoken or from where, but they figured out quickly it was Fett, still seated in the pilot seat of the cockpit above them.

“How long have you been listening to us?!” Migs yelled, full of anger and indignation. He glanced back at Din, flustered, and all he could see was a telltale bulge in the front of the Mandalorian’s flight suit that mirrored his own.

“Since the beginning. You think I’d let anyone wander my ship without supervision?” Fett griped from the other end of the mic. “If you’re going to do this, I don’t want a front row seat.”

“We’re doing this,” Migs hissed. “Get. Out.”

There was a quiet stillness, but then Migs heard Fett making his way out of the cockpit, heavy armor anything but discreet. Migs was so wound up, so hyped on sexual energy, he almost forgot that Din was standing next to him, his bare chest heaving and flushed red face visible.

“Wait!” He called sharply.

The footsteps stopped. Migs closed in on Din, somehow no longer afraid of getting in the other man’s personal space. He pushed Din towards the far side of the Slave 1’s hull before reaching up, grabbing Din by the nape and forcing the other man to turn around. Din hissed at him, but yielded as he was almost slammed into the wall. He brought his arms up at the last minute to catch himself, pressing the meat of his lithe forearms against the metal. They made a nice bracket to hide his face between.

“Head down.” Migs ordered, forcing Mando into the cradle of his own arms, forehead coming to rest against the cool metal of the ship.

Once he was sure Mando’s face, which belonged solely to him now, was safely out of sight, he called for Fett to continue. The Beta gave no indication of what he thought as he lowered himself down the ladder and then sauntered towards the cargo hatch. The cloners had chosen Jango Fett because of his impartiality, knowing that the nature and instincts of a Beta would be best suited towards a stable, obedient army. Boba Fett however, took that neutrality to another level, caring for no one and nothing, squaring up against anyone that crossed his path wrong.

“Make sure you clean up your mess.” The bounty hunter said stoically, completely unreadable under his helmet and scent obtusely vague. Before he disappeared through the open hatch, he turned his head to look over one shoulder. Even without seeing his eyes, Migs knew the bounty hunter was looking straight at him.

“And don’t ever give me orders on my ship again.” Then he was gone with a swish of black robes, door clanking closed behind him.

“What’s going on?” He heard the rebel Marshal ask faintly before the hatch locked completely, cutting off the outside world.

Migs returned his attention back to the topless man hunched facing the wall, head still bowed between his parallel arms. The vast expanse of Din’s bare, muscled back flexed, poised to fight or fuck and Migs’ hand tightened its iron hold on the silky, sweaty hair of the other Alpha’s nape. He pressed down, forcing Din to drop his head lower and lower, until the Mandalorian finally gave a warning growl. It was exactly what Migs was looking for.

As soon as Din vocalized his boundary, Migs twisted his hand to pull on the sensitive area. The sharp movement broke Din off mid-growl, but it was more surprise than actual pain. The Mandalorian remained silent and still, waiting to counter Migs’ next move, but not pulling away either. Pleased with Din’s response, the sharp shooter reached forward with his other hand to ghost along Din’s lower back, just along the edge formed by his partially discarded flight suit.

Din trembled. At first Migs thought he must have mistaken the vibrations beneath his fingers, but Din’s body was shuddering under his touch like he would fall apart if Migs continued.

Migs wanted nothing more than to watch Din break into a thousand pieces under his touch.

He was finally giving in to the notion of making the Mandalorian his.

Finally alone for good, Migs wasted no more time molding himself to Din’s backside, blanketing himself over his soon to be life partner in a way the was distinctive, hard coded Alpha. His now aching cock pressed deliciously into the toned meat of the other man’s very fine ass and his hips rocked involuntarily, seeking friction. The feeling of Din pressing back against him was borderline maddening. The only thing Migs could actively prevent himself from doing was kissing messily along the delicate dip where the Mandalorian’s shoulder met his neck, where Din’s scent was strongest beside the intimate crease of his thigh and groin. Din was still an Alpha who would protect his most vulnerable areas, so Migs was going to have to work up to putting his mouth on either location. He cursed to himself and let go of Din’s hair so he could use both hands to push what remained of Din’s flight suit down past his thighs, followed by thin underclothes. Migs’ mouth watered at the sight of fine black hair along the back of Din’s thighs, knowing there was a similar silk along the soft stretch between naval and groin. He took hold of Din’s hips and slowly forced a knee into the indent between those closed thighs. They spread willingly.

Migs pushed his clothed knee up, right into the crevice behind Din’s balls.

“I’m going to fuck you.” He growled into back of Din’s head as he nosed through the fine black hair. “I’m going to fuck this. Right. Here.”

Din whined back in reply, high pitched and urgent, and damn if that didn’t send Migs hurtling through hyperspace. His cock was verging on painful now, leaking slightly. Unwilling to engage in that particular part of the prison economics, it had been a while since his last sexual encounter. Migs was almost afraid he might come from just the roll of Din’s writhing body against his, so he decided he wasn’t wasting anymore time.

He reached over Din’s shoulder to shove two fingers into an open mouth. Din jerked in surprise as Migs pumped his fingers in and out, careful to avoid Din’s canines as he pressed the pads of his fingers into the silky velvet of Din’s tongue. Right before Migs was about to pull away, Din sealed his lips and sucked harshly. Migs shuddered. With a wet pop, he freed them and then reached down, quickly finding that puckered ring of flesh. He was no stranger to preparing an ass for taking since the only men with a wet slit made for sex were Omega and extremely rare.

“You done this before?” Migs asked as he felt along the twitching ridge, letting one fingertip barely breach before pulling it back out.

“No.” Din breathed out.

That wasn’t surprising. Alphas rarely played the role Din was actively partaking in now, prostrating themselves to the will of others. Migs didn’t know why he asked since the answer was so predictable.

No, that wasn’t true. He knew exactly why. He wanted confirmation that, like knowing Din’s face, he was the Mandalorian’s first and only .

He finally slipped a finger into the other man, slowly inching it up past his first then second knuckle in one go. A guttural rumble escaped Din then, barely a vocalization, like Din wasn’t exactly making it willingly. Migs ignored it, wiggled the finger out and then back in. He only gave one more pump before aligning the second spit covered finger to join the first. It took time to get Din accustomed to the stretch of two, so Migs let himself enjoy the slippery heat as he made a scissoring motion. On a particularly deep plunge, Migs felt that little bundle of nerves he was looking for and Din’s entire body seized up like a power coil, a long groan ripping through him, almost painful in its fervor. Migs made sure to aim for the spot again and the second time he was treated to the most beautiful breathy, little moan he had ever heard. He became so busy trying to bring out those broken noises from the Alpha that he almost forgot his true objective. Adding a third finger made Din hiss, but he tilted his hips upward and rocked back onto Migs’ hand without prompting.

At long last, Migs deemed Din ready.

Din turned to look over one shoulder when Migs pulled his fingers out and went to work shedding his own clothes. Din’s suit was still wrapped around his knees and Migs only made it as far as opening the front of his own suit before reaching down and pulling his erection out over the rim of his underwear. It would have to do, Migs wasn’t waiting any longer. The base of his cock was already beginning to bulge bigger than the rest his length and there was a wet spot seeping from his underwear into his flight suit.

Migs pressed his small patch of exposed chest into Din’s back, loving the smell of himself on Din, how their Alpha scents mixed like fire and gasoline, perfectly opposite and creating something breathtakingly wild. He reached down and lined himself up, Din’s hole twitching against the wet tip of his dick.

“Last chance.” Migs huffed, knowing he probably wouldn’t be able to stop himself if Din said no.

“Just do it.” Din said, too undone to care and too far gone to know better.

Migs gave a firm push forward. He had planned to be nice since it was Din’s first time, but he found he literally could not stop until he was seated up to his root, Din’s fleshy cheeks pressed fully against Migs’ pelvic bone. The inferno of Din’s body almost pushed Migs over the edge instantly, his knot distending to catch along Din’s rim. Din was bowed perfectly against him, back arched till his head was thrown back to rest against Migs’ shoulder. He was strangely quiet, breath hitched and mouth wide in a silent scream.

With Din’s necked stretched out like this and his head lulled to one side, Migs was finally able to tuck his nose into the intoxicatingly vulnerable spot on the side of Din’s throat. There was a small, raised patch of skin where the texture was slightly different, halfway between skin and waxy smooth scar tissue. It smelled musky, smokey, and all together Alpha male. It didn’t scream to Migs as particularly sexual, but he couldn’t imagine a more enticing or powerful scent.

As soon as Migs’ nose ghosted over his scent gland though, Din snapped his head forward protectively. Thankfully, Migs didn’t have long to mourn the loss of the scent and Din’s submissive vulnerability.

“Migs,” Din croaked. “Move. Please.”

Migs moved one hand from Din’s hip to intwine with the Mandalorian’s muscled arm where it pressed along the ship hull, needing to stabilize himself for the task at hand. He then pulled his hips back and snapped forward, relishing in the way Din’s ass clenched around him. A second thrust was followed by a third, and then another and another. The two were soon caught up in a brutal, animalistic pace, the only noises in the hull Migs’ steady growl, Din’s wanton cries, and the obscene slap of skin against skin.

Neither one of them was coherent beyond the place where they coupled together.

Instinctively, Migs shuffled them forward, crowding Din against the wall, not wanting to give the other man anywhere else to go. Suddenly, Din could not pull away as Migs dove back into the side of his neck and licked a heated stripe up the side of Din’s throat, just skirting the now pulsing scent gland. The Mandalorian tried hunching inward, hiding behind his broad shoulder, but Migs gave a forceful thrust, sharp shooter aim perfectly hitting Din’s prostate.

“Don’t.” Migs ordered before Din could pull away from him again. It was the only word he could grind out between heaving pants. The next time Migs neared Din’s scent gland, the Alpha remained receptively placid, allowing Migs to mouth the tender skin, mouth hanging open and breath shallow. Migs set about licking and sucking red marks into pale, sensitive column that no one had ever touched before. He knew no one had ever touched Din here and not because of his Alpha defensiveness, but because of the way Din twitched and jerked under his mouth, pulse too fast to even feel the individual heartbeats.

Migs’ knot was beginning to swell rapidly, making it harder and harder to pull out of Din’s sweet heat and plunge back in. Migs was close and they both knew it. He reached down, wondering what he would find between Din’s legs. Obviously he was an Alpha male, but Migs had never touched another Alpha cock before, let alone a knot. Was Din even hard? Was he enjoying himself?

His limited, but fervent vocalization told Migs the answer was yes, but he needed to know.

Migs felt along the flexing muscle of Din’s abdomen until his hand bumped into the hard velvety skin of Din’s throbbing erection. The Mandalorian hissed at the contact, but hesitantly ground his dick into Migs’ fist, probably not expecting Migs to be willing to give him release. Din’s cock was pulsing to touch, and when Migs swiped his thumb over the head, it came away sticky and wet. When Migs finally touched along the base, he could feel that Din’s knot was beginning to expand as well, heavy and full and waiting.

Surprisingly, the weight of it in his hand was strangely pleasant. Migs moved to cup Dins balls as they began to tighten, so close to release. Finally one of Din’s hands, the one not wrapped up with Migs’ own, snaked down to pump himself in time with Migs’ punishing pace.

Slowly, their stabilizing hands against the Slave I hull slowly found each other, fingers interlaced until they were were tightly holding onto each other’s hand.

It was all Migs needed as he finally chased his peak. Right before his vision started to blur, Migs found Din’s scent gland once more, rich with the other Alpha’s individual, fragrant musk. He licked it, let his teeth drag along the slick skin in a tortuous, tantalizing promise. ‘ _You are mine._ ’ It said. Din voiced his growl of protest, but Migs did three things in rapid sequence. 

First, he moved to squeeze Din’s knot tightly, remaining steady and still as Din’s own hand worked furiously along the length and head of his dick. Din threw his head back and moaned, probably on the cusp of his own climax with Migs providing tight heat for his knot. 

Second, Migs shoved himself as far as he could into the sweaty writhing body in front of him, the large bundle of nerves and blood at the base of his cock expanding as his climax pulsed, firmly locking them together with Din seated completely on Migs’ knot.

Finally, he untangled their intertwined arms, letting go of Din’s hand to grab him by hair on the back of his head instead, pulled harshly so Din’s neck was fully extended, easily located the source of that heady Alpha perfume, and bit. Hard. Canines fully breaking the skin, blood flooding his mouth….

….marking Din as his, _forever_.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *skips away merrily, giggling like the horny madwoman she is*


	3. The Den

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready??

Migs had grown up near the sea.

He would fall asleep, listening to the waves, looking out the starport window his father had built him so he could see the various craft as they navigated the nearby space harbor. Sometimes, he would wake up in the middle of the night, sneak into his parents’ bed and burrow himself between them, falling asleep bathed in their warmth and scent. Despite his antagonistic attitude and blunt narcissism, Migs had been granted an idyllic childhood, growing up the only child of respectable parents. His Alpha mother had been a revered geneticist, his Beta father a local Imperial Enforcer.

It wasn’t until later, when he realized his entire life was a lie, that he became jaded.

After Burnin Konn, Migs had left his sharpshooter armor behind and never looked back. He meant nothing to the Empire, so the uniform in turn meant nothing to him. Then – _Then_! – the side he had fought for, the side he had hated and then deserted, _lost_. They kriffing lost! And wasn’t that just an ironic joke of cosmic proportions. The Empire had killed his fellow soldiers, men and women he had served alongside, some he had even known from home, and now they didn’t even exist for him to hate anymore. However, that also did not mean that the blessed by the Force, dipped in shiny gold and screaming of righteous glory Rebel Alliance was his cup of spotchka either. 

Migs was first and foremost a survivor. He did only what he was required to, went only where he needed to at the time, and only cared when it wouldn’t hurt him.

But now all of that had changed.

Everything realigned. 

A tether bloomed deep in his chest, its hook driven straight into his heart and tugged tight. Migs could feel the course correction, as if his internal mag-director now pointed in one steadfast direction. It had found its target, resolute in its orientation, rather than the constant wander of a barely controlled downward spiral it had previously done his entire life. He was home again, wrapping himself in the safe den of his parents’ bed.

Only that feeling mattered anymore and he greedily clutched at it, mentally wrapping himself around the connection and letting it cement into his core.

Migs came down from his orgasmic high in waves. First it was just a slow return of his senses. He heard panting, tasted the salt of skin and sweat, felt the sticky copper of blood in his mouth. Gradually, he relaxed his jaw where it was clamped tightly shut, only to lathe his tongue gently over the wound he had created.

The bite he had given Din, or rather to Din’s scent gland.

A mating bite.

 _Din_ …

The Mandalorian trembled in his arms, still held up against the wall, or rather Migs relied on Din to stay upright and Din clung to the wall like his life depended on it, keeping them both standing. Next, Migs remembered they were tied at his groin, his thighs clenching in another wet rush of orgasm. Their hips pressed so tightly together, legs intertwined, Migs didn’t know what was Din and what was his own shivering body. It was a mess.

With bloody lips, he kissed the mangled scent gland in front of him and he belatedly noticed how the other Alpha’s scent was shifting, moving over to include his own.

The final wave came in full realization of what had happened. Din was his. The tether in his essence was the unbreakable Force bond forming between them, which Migs had been unintentionally nurturing, stupidly encouraging to fester and grow before it was too late to pull out of its hold.

Din gave a muted whimper.

He felt the bond too. Migs just _knew_.

“Mando?” Migs croaked, leaning forward into Din’s back. His nose came to rest in the sweating divot between Din’s shoulder blades. He tried again. “Din?”

“I know.” Din murmured back. “I feel it.”

Arousal, fear, curiosity, insecurity. The emotions all sizzled around the bond in an anxious, hopeful ball. The feedback loop between them became dizzying, so Migs pulled himself upright, trying to reorientate his senses to something less overwhelming. Din remained hunched up against the hull, just as incoherent. He waited, unsure what Migs wanted from him, lingering as if in limbo.

“You ok, brown eyes?” Migs asked. Kriff, why had he come up with that damn nickname? Why was he using it now?

Apparently, he was not the sole being affected by the intimate moniker. Loving provocation? Mocking endearment? Whatever it was, Din gave a shuddering breath, accompanied by a stab of confusion through the bond. Migs wanted to reach forward to comfort him, but paused midway, caught between his instinct to protect and a voice in his head that wasn’t his own asking to be given space. As he debated with himself on what to do, his knot, which had been deflating gradually, finally slipped loose from Din’s abused ass.

The Mandalorian hissed and swiftly closed his spread thighs.

Migs instantly swayed backwards, deciding to give space as he accurately read the movement for what it was; a prompt end to any invitation he had to the body in front of him. He could smell Din’s stress, so stepping away and tucking himself back into his flight suit with an awkward shove all he could think to do without drawing the Mandalorian’s morose thoughts, in complete opposition to his own sense of found home, onto himself. After not receiving any input from Migs, Din began turning around, one shoulder still leaned heavily on the Slave I hull.

It was then that Migs began to panic.

He had made some huge mistake. As he stood there, staring at Din, taking in his naked front from his naturally brown toned skin flushed in a deep blush to the curled black hair around his cock, Migs found himself floundering. He had seriously fucked up. Again.

“Please don’t” Din asked, wincing as he brought up a hand to rub his temple. “I can’t-“

_I can’t handle your panic too right now….._

Migs nodded his head, licking his lips in nervousness. He needed grounding, he needed direction. He needed to _give_ direction. So he dove deep down and found that feeling of home, wrapped up in his family den, and focused on it, letting all other emotions melt away.

“Let’s get you cleaned up and ready to go.” Migs said, nodding towards the pile of beskar, helmet set next to it. A trip to the fresher to grab and wet a towel later, Din was wiping cum from between his thighs and pulling his flight suit back up, covering Migs’ love marks. Selfishly, the ex-Imperial was pleased to see that the suit did not cover his mating bite, angry and raw on Din’s neck. The feeling was fleeting and immediately punished as Din then pulled the cowl of his cape down over his head. The overwhelming smell that was purely Din emanating from the cape dampened the scent of Migs’ claim to him.

Migs tried not to be annoyed. 

Breastplate, vambraces, thigh tassets; each piece methodically placed back where it belonged. When Migs offered to help with a particularly tricky strap after watching Din’s numb fingers fumble with it, Din froze, his scent spiked with worry. He wanted to say no, but his jaw clicked firmly shut.

“Alright.” Migs held up his hands in capitulation. “Alright, I know when I’m not welcome anymore.”

Din gave him a curious look then, as if he was unsure of Migs’ patience. Had he expected Migs to be an asshole?

Actually, that might have been a fair assumption. Force damn it all.

“Here.” Migs said after Din had the strap buckled into place. Plucking the helmet from where it rested, he held it up in offering. Maybe not offering, the helmet did not belong to him. Support? Solidarity maybe? Like in the officer’s mess.

A sharp pang of gratitude, followed by fondness.

It took Migs a moment to realize the emotions were not his. It was difficult to siphon through his own head and those supplied over the bond. They all mushed together into a woven blend of both of them. Din reached for the helmet, his fingers skimming along Migs’ own.

Migs couldn’t help himself, he went in for a kiss. Din gave a surprised gasp, but he didn’t pull away. After the initial surprise and tense confusion, he even pressed back, lips parting into a content sigh. Migs savored every second of it. Any moment now and this would slip away. Din would be anonymously hidden from view, anxious and distant, and they would both have to deal with what they had done, figure out the rest of their very lives. For those few sweet seconds though, it was just Migs, Din, and the thrumming string between them.

They parted, clumsy in their imperfection, and Din glanced up at Migs for a moment before reclaiming the helmet and slipping it back on.

Had that been a smile?

Migs wasn’t able to consider it for long, because both the bond and Din’s scent screamed of nothing but relief. While hitting the latch gear to release the rear cargo door, the ex-Imperial mistakenly took the feeling to be related to him, but he then realized it had only to do with the armor, particularly the helmet. The Mandalorian was back where he felt safe and at home. It was hard for the sharpshooter to believe since a strict uniform had only ever felt suffocating and restrictive to him. Din, however, rapidly recovered, now sure that his beloved culture and very identity would not be stripped from him. All it had cost him was his freedom. Quite a strange thing to be happy about, but who was Migs to even have an opinion on the matter? As the cargo door fully lowered, Migs only felt cold rejection. He tried to smoother the feeling so it wouldn’t project or sour his scent and give him away.

Before he was sure he was even ready for it, the other three crew members of their ridiculous, random little band of barely controlled chaos came into view. Boba turned away from them, already knowing too much. Fennec only observed from the side of one eye, eagle vision catching everything. It was the giant Alderaanian pain in Migs’ ass that pressed forward, gun slung in front of her at a low ready, eyes flitting between the two men accusingly. Or rather, the female Alpha looked at Din for answers, and at Migs like he was a culprit needing to be caught and punished. Maybe Migs was, how the hell was he to even know anymore?

When both men seemed to be outwardly fine, her shoulders relaxed.

And then the wind picked up and Migs wanted to knock his head repeatedly against the side of a nearby tree.

The Rebel enforcer’s nose flared, her eyes widened, and Migs was in so much shit.

He was suddenly looking down the very pointedly aimed-for-a-kill business end of Dune’s blaster.

“Just say the word, I’ll drop him right here, right now,” She hissed. Migs threw his hands up, mouth opening to screech in protest. But she wasn’t talking to him. Her eyes were focused in on him like a laser, never loosing sigh of her target, yet her words were obviously directed at Mando. The only way out of a bond was the death of one of the mates.

Kriff it all, Migs had not thought about that.

Din, Force bless him, never even hesitated. He slid in front of where Migs had frozen in place, ex-Imperial caught on the edge of petrified and indignant, and motioned for Dune to stand down. The Rebel marshal actually did stop, eyebrows scrunched high in disbelief, but gun lowering slightly so she wasn’t pointing it at the Mandalorian’s chest.

“Don’t. Cara, put the gun away.” Din sounded worried, even through the modulation of his helmet.

“What is this? Why are you two-“ She stopped, unable to even say the word.

“I ran into a problem. It’s fixed.” Din answered. “I’m- …fine.”

In clear contradiction, he smelled like distressed mated Alpha, scent permanently dominated by another Alpha and marking him as claimed property.

Cara rolled her eyes, letting her weapon drop completely. “We are so having a very, _very_ long conversation later.” She craned her neck and fixed Migs with a withering look over Din’s armored shoulder. “And you! I was going to lie for you, say it was pity you never made it out alive and that prisoner 34667 died in a refinery explosion on Morak.”

Migs blinked.

“Yeah, not anymore.” She continued. “You are going straight back to prison where you can’t mess up anything else.”

“Cara –“ Mando interjected.

“No.” Migs surprised everyone by cutting him off. “She’s right. I should go back. You can have your life and not have to worry about me mucking up any more of it, just like she said. It’s the right thing to do and we can all sleep at night.”

“Let’s just,” Mando sighed, “Let’s just focus on getting the child back. _He_ is what matters. Then we can figure this out.”

“Sure. Fine.” Cara said shortly. “After he’s back where he belongs.”

Din fidgeted, visible uncertainty at odds with his normally cool and composed nature, which drew everyone’s attention. Migs could feel him thinking, rapidly sorting through a dozen different options while struggling with the several urgent demands stacked on top of him. Din’s emotions cycled faster than Migs could sort through and identify them.

“Can we- can we wait?” He asked, voice halting every few syllables. “Or maybe we can just say. That he did. Die? In the explosion. That might work.”

“We need to deal with this later.” Fennec waved a frustrated hand. “What’s our next move, right now?”

“We get off this planet, since we’ve painted a giant target on our backs with our little stunt.” Boba answered. “Let the lovebirds sort themselves out when we’re safe in hyperspace.”

Thank you, Boba kriff-you-all fucking Fett.

Migs nodded in agreement, all too grateful for the change in subject. The group moved together up the ship’s tail into the confines of the rotating belly, temporarily able to agree on something. As he made his way inside though, Cara caught him, slinging one heavily muscled arm over his shoulder. Migs’ hackles rose and he gave a small snarl of disapproval. The Rebel dropper’s behavior was not appropriate among allied alphas, let alone conducive to keeping peace aboard the small confines of the Slave I. Cara only tightened her grasp, answering with an Alpha growl of her own.

“You do anything, and I mean anything, to hurt him, and I will kill you,” She seethed, words clipped, “And not even he will stop me. Got it, bantha fodder?”

Migs chose not to answer, refusing to give her the satisfaction of rising to her threat. However, they were now entering the ship, and well…. It reeked of their previous activity.

Cara looked like she was going to vomit. “I swear, I am going to throw you into a sarlaac pit.”

“He’d still be mine.” Migs hissed back, shrugging her off.

She pulled away, eyes murderous, putting a hand over her nose and sitting as far away from him as she could. Even Din moved opposite him, rotating like a satellite, caught in his gravity but never touching. Migs didn’t need the bond to tell him Din had no damned idea what to do or how to act, his body language spoke volumes in his silence.

Unhappy and unwelcome, Migs huffed and stalked off to rest alone, begrudgingly coming to terms with just how much his life had just changed, or potentially not changed at all. The Slave I jerked to life around him, began rising from the planet and accelerating towards space, and Migs found himself thankful for the forward movement.

During the three-day travel to Morak, he had found a secluded nook in the small spacecraft, nothing more than a crawlspace between two engine conduits, the mouth of it barely coming up to his waist. With such limited space onboard a craft made for one or two people, there were only two sleeping berths, a primary and then a secondary, which was little more than a closet with a cloth hammock hanging from the ceiling. Boba obviously had claimed the main quarters as his own, and Fennec had marked the closet repeatedly with her Omega scent. As guests and Alphas, Cara and Din respectfully slept upright in their jump seats, but Migs had scouted the ship for somewhere more comfortable to rest his head. The tiny nook turned out to be the only decent option the last few nights and honestly it wasn’t that bad. It narrowed the deeper it went, the far outside wall too small for Migs to fit his head and shoulders, so he had to shimmy in feet first. Piping ran along the outside wall and the metal was kept warm by the ship’s churning engines, creating a nice toasty place for him to fall asleep. Knowing the pipes never got too hot, Migs slipped off his boots and socks and pressed his toes onto the warmth rarely found in space. He then pulled off his jacket and bundled it up into a pillow. The area smelt like him.

He hadn’t meant to make a den, but apparently, he had done so unintentionally.

Migs dozed, fitfully falling in and out of sleep as he twisted and shifted within the tiny cubby. Dreams filled his head. Images of his childhood starport, Operation Cinder, the brown sand of the beach, Din’s face, and of being trapped in armor once again. They left him exhausted and restless. He had tried to mock the armor, different from his own sharpshooter uniform, but similar enough that putting it on had almost sent Migs into a panic filled stupor. He complained of the smell and the sweat still inside of it, but he didn’t even make it three minutes before he had to rip the helmet off. Upon leaving the juggernaut, Migs could not bring himself to touch the helmet and bring it with them, so he had silently left it behind. In his dream, however, the helmet was welded to his skin, simultaneously suffocating him and announcing to the universe he was Imperial.

No, he promised! He had left the Empire, he swore, this wasn’t right, he begged!

Every time he jerked awake, he flailed for several long seconds until his internal compass honed in on the presence in the main cargo hold, so close yet so far away. Too far. Instinctively, Migs knew he would be able to find Din anywhere in the galaxy, no map or coordinates necessary. The tether within him was all he needed.

Din did not sleep. He paced, sat stock still in his seat as Cara quietly, desperately, interrogated him, and then paced some more. He sent his threatening message to the Moff, only set about pacing the ship all over again.

Migs groaned in irritation, turning himself over. 

_Dammit brown eyes._

Shock, followed by curiosity, then smothered in anger. The tumble of emotions did not belong to Migs.

 _What have I done?_ Came the answer.

“We.” Migs whispered to himself, not even opening his blurry eyes. “What have we done?”

He snuggled deeper into his jacket. _We could say we did what we needed to do to survive, but that’s pure bantha shit and everyone knows it._

The listless lull of sleep began dragging him down into its depths once more, awareness slipping away. However, right as he began dreaming again, this time of Rydonium and breaking down TIE fighters in the scrapyard, Din’s presence pulled him back. It was closer now.

No, he was right there, in the mouth of the crawlspace.

Migs propped himself up on one elbow with a scowl, squinting in the low light of the ship, catching scent faster than visually identifying a face, or in this case helmet. Another Alpha so close to his den had the hair on the back of his neck prickling. Migs wanted to vocalize his discomfort, but he knew who had come to see him. The bond had announced loud and clear, I’m here. There stood the Mandalorian, helmet ever so slightly slanted downward to look at him and cocked to the side in private question. Apprehension and concern in equal amounts, supplied by the bond, were Migs’ only tools to work with. Lovely.

“Get in.” Migs ordered finally.

“I won’t fit.” Din snipped back.

“Then take off the armor.”

Silence.

“Hang your cowl over the entrance, pretty boy.” Migs laid back down with a huff. “No one is gonna come snooping near a den with two of _us_ in it.”

An Alpha den was a warning, Migs was surprised Din had approached it.

Two Alphas was off limits unless you had a death wish.

The systematic removal of Din’s armor, almost ritualistic, began. Migs listened as Din stripped, piece by piece. His helmet was last. Last to be taken off and last to be put back on. Always. Migs was beginning to notice. He sensed more than saw Din check around their little alcove, making sure they were alone and that he was out of sight of the main cargo area. Once Din was confident no one would see him, he slipped the helmet off. Migs opened his eyes then, an unscratchable itch making him look, and watched as Din removed the cape as well and began stuffing its tattered ends into any groove or gap he could find. Din did not return his gaze, instead his eyes remained pointedly downcast and focused on his work. In no time, the crawlspace entrance was covered with Din’s armor stacked in a neat, orderly pile to one side.

“Boots too.”

Din’s mouth twitched. He wanted to protest.

The boots were pulled off one at a time and set, heel to heel, next to his armor.

Migs scooted over, pressing himself into the wall, as Din slid in feet first next to him. It would be a tight fit for sure, but not inherently unpleasant. Their backs pressed against each other as they faced opposite walls, Din fiddling with the cape to make sure it properly concealed them. They both seemed to be holding their breath, the heat between them scalding. Din’s long legs nestled next to Migs’ own in the narrowing space, one ankle tangled between the sharpshooter’s in a tense exchange of exposed skin.

After a moment of back and forth, Migs used a foot to nudge Din’s towards the warm pipes.

Din froze when Migs began pushing on him, but did not resist. Once he realized Migs’ intentions, the Mandalorian relaxed and sighed in pleasure, resting his own toes heavily against the pipes.

“Yup.” Migs said simply.

This time, Migs fell asleep easily and dreamed about his parents. It was only flashes. His father’s arm wrapped around his mother’s tiny waist, his mother kissing his head before telling him to get into bed, trying on his father’s Imperial uniform when he wasn’t looking, only to have the man laugh proudly when he had caught the boy swimming in his finely pressed clothes. His father had been a redhead with dark eyes, Migs remembered. His colleagues called him ‘ _Wild Red’_ or just “ _Red_.”

His father used to kiss his mother and call her his ‘ _Blue-eyed Baby_.”

Migs awoke to footsteps approaching the den. It was not Din. The Mandalorian slept next to him, snoring lightly. During their sleep, Migs had turned onto his back and Din was now using his chest as a pillow, leg thrown over Migs’ hips. The weight of him was as comforting as it was exhilarating. Refocusing on the newcomer, Migs growled in warning till the footsteps stopped.

Din startled at the sound.

“We’re nearing Jorga III SpaceStation.” Cara snapped, recognizing Migs based off snarl alone. “Only stopping for fuel and food.”

She then stomped away.

Migs was already forgetting about her as he stared down at Din, who laid heavily on top of him, black curls a wild mess and brown eyes sleep fogged. As an experienced warrior and trained Mandalorian, the haze rapidly started to fade, but for a few wonder filled seconds he looked so soft and innocent, mouth gentle. Din’s thoughts were just as confused and candid; he was at peace and comfortable and he couldn’t remember why. The way he had been laying and how he was currently looking around, rubbing his palm into one eye, his mating bite became visible. Every time Migs caught a glimpse of it his stomach fluttered up into his chest.

Finally figuring out where he was, Din became tense, eyes alert and guarded. Migs did not like the way he lowered his head into his hunched shoulders. The way he stilled like he was unsure and waiting for an attack. During his drowsy shifting, Din had accidentally moved his thigh to lay right on top of Migs’ groin, his own dick pressed into Migs’ hip. Both of them became conscious of it at the same time. The pheromones in the air screamed of lust while the bond crackled in expectation.

They remained motionless until Migs slowly craned his neck towards the hanging cowl and used his free arm to pull it a few inches to one side. He tried to ignore the way Din choked mid-breath and frantically pressed his face into Migs’ chest to hide. Migs tried, but he failed.

A quick glance around revealed nothing. “We’re alone. You can get dressed.”

Not trusting himself to look back down at Din without getting aroused, thus making a fool of himself since Din was still very much pressed tightly against him with his face tucked into Migs’ pectoral muscle, Migs continued observing through the small gap in their den cover. If he pretended to play look out for the Mandalorian long enough, maybe the clueless hunk of space cowboy would get off his dick and back into his normal clothes, not the thin flight suit that clung to his lithe body in all the wrong, but at the same time enticingly right, ways.

Thankfully, Din got the message, via bond or smell or good old-fashioned body language, Migs did not care, only that he received and understood. The Mandalorian moved up onto his knees just as Migs felt himself start to swell in traitorous interest.

Migs’ relief was short lived.

Right before Din crawled out, he dipped down and took advantage of Migs’ prone position, licking a hot, sultry stripe from exposed collar bone all the way up, up, up to orange-stubbled chin. Migs had frozen at the first velvety hot touch, but by the time Din drug his tongue along the line of his jaw, Migs was a writhing, twitching disaster.

Din avoided Migs’ scent gland. The sharp shooter noticed.

Then he was crawling away, face, chest, then legs floating over Migs’ rigid body out of the narrow den. Migs could not even watch as the Mandalorian readorned all his armor and thick boots. He only moved when Din tugged his cowl from the entrance and rolled it over his head to secure it around his neck. A quick glance up had Migs staring into heated brown eyes, the pupil wide and pitch black, before the helmet slipped resolutely back into its rightful place on those broad shoulders.

Din turned and was gone, frighteningly silent and agile for a man of his size.

“Fuuuuuuckk.” Migs sighed, bringing up a hand to scrub furiously at his face. His erection throbbed between his legs. Knowing Din would probably catch on quickly if he masturbated right then and there, especially with his arousal so connected to Din’s direct and intentional actions, Migs laid very still, willing his erection to subside. It took a while, but eventually his cocked flagged painfully to one side, as if angry it was being neglected.

Migs banged both fists into the sides of the power conduits on either side of him.

He gave a primal grunt before forcing himself from the crawlspace and back out into the rotating hull. Fennec and Cara both looked up, Fennec with bored ambivalence and Cara barely contained fury. Din remained turned away, fiddling with some random controls. Migs wanted to smash the entire panel, knock Din out of that chair and onto his ass, wanted the Mandalorian sprawled out and helpless at his feet.

Din radiated smugness back at him.

That wily little bastard….

The two sat quietly on opposite sides of the hull, letting the bond cackle between them.

No one needed to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Leave me some kudos and a comment. It sustains my dark soul until I'm ready to leave hibernation and feast on real flesh again.


End file.
